


Drunken Scotsman

by Pollymal



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Pre-slash. Holmes Brothers having a laugh. Humour, Songfic. Written on St. Paddy's after the wine.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollymal/pseuds/Pollymal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes to fancy dress party. Later, drunk and sleeping it off, Sherlock and Mycroft find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Scotsman

**Author's Note:**

> Wine and loud singing on St Patrick's Day inspired this fic. Jessamy beta'd the first bit and put up with drunken ramblings. Much kudos to her! The rest is screwed up by myself. Also attempting to squish song lyrics into a fic makes for some weird ass sentences. Not Brit picked really either.

The most stressful thing about fancy dress parties is of course the fancy dress. It is amazing what the average normal person will come up with in those last few moments of desperation. These moments include flinging every item of clothing one owns in every direction, running one's fingers through hair in frustration and frequent cries of, “What will I wear??” Ludicrous ideas present themselves but drift away when, at the back corner of the wardrobe, tucked away and forgotten, a large swath of plaid fabric is found. Yanked into daylight, nimble fingers drape, fold, and tuck stylish pleats. Belt and sporran subdue any rebel pleats attempting a break for freedom. The current t-shirt, black and blazoned with the slogan, -Trust Me, I’m THE Doctor- is deemed “good enough”. Kilt hose and garters are pulled on with the ease of many years practice. The bright red flashes at the top of the hose are straightened and fondly patted. Then, the ghillies. No. Just no. They cost the earth and always did pinch like fuck. Plus they were the biggest pain in the ass to tie. Seriously who wanted to wrap laces around his ankles four times. No. Not merely no, but _Hell No._ From the floor of the wardrobe, a pair of well loved deep green Doc Martens send out their siren song. Stuffed in the toe of the left boot he finds a leather cuff, not worn since uni days, days of loud driving music setting the tempo during reckless snogs and rough hand jobs. In a fit of nostalgia he buckles it on. A smear of whatever hair goop his madman of a roommate uses teases his slightly outgrown buzz into something resembling spikes. Mirror check. It would do.

John Hamish Watson staggered out the bar one evening fair. And you could tell by the way he walked he’d drunk more than his share. John shook his head, attempting to flag down a taxi. Unsurprisingly the car sped on by, ignoring the swavering kilt-clad doctor. He stumbled ‘round until he could no longer find his feet. Crashing heavily into a tree, he slid down, curling at the base of the trunk to sleep beside the street.

About that time a young and lovely man strode by, purposefully ignore the shiny black car creeping along at a snail’s pace behind him. 

“You may as well get in the car now Sherlock.” The cultured voice floated out of the dark interior. “You are only delay...Driver, stop.”

Mycroft shielded his eyes from the bright pub lights, exiting the car to see what had caught his brother’s attention so quickly. He glanced over the figure on the ground, unsurprised when he felt at a tug on his wrist. Sherlock had a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Sherlock leaned in close to his brother’s ear, “Oh see yon sleeping Scotsman, so strong and handsome built,” he whispered wickedly, “I wonder if it’s true what they don’t wear beneath their kilt.”

Mycroft eyed his younger brother, both wearing identical looks of speculation. They stood, hands in pockets, staring down at the slumbering physician, “He still occasionally favours his leg,” Mycroft offered.

Sherlock waved it away, “Psychosomatic” 

“Agreed,” his brother nodded. “But perhaps there is something there. Perhaps it is not entirely a phantom pain. Have you checked?”

Sherlock looked startled, “No, I cannot say that I have.”

“Ah.”

A slow smile spread across the faces of both men. This was now important. If John was going to be chasing criminals with Sherlock he had to be in top fighting form. Obviously. 

Mycroft made to step towards John but Sherlock caught his arm. “Go carefully,” he warned “I’ve awakened him suddenly before. The bruise on my jaw lasted 6 days.”

They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be. Mycroft grasped the plaid and lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see. “For God’s sake Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed. He reached over his brother abruptly pulling the kilt back, taking care to not disturb John in any way.

And there behold, for them to view, beneath his Scottish skirt was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth. 

They marveled for a moment. “I think,” Mycroft said his voice sounding just a bit strained, “We can determine Dr. Watson is certainly in the best of health.” He paused, swallowed roughly before continuing, “His leg looks fine too.” Sherlock nodded, his gaze never wavering from his best friend laid out bare and unconscious before him. 

He drew a deep breath brushing off his immaculate suit, absently fiddling with his cufflinks. “It would never do for us to be caught here. We must be gone before he wakes up. Let's leave a present for our friend, before we move along” 

“A present?” Sherlock asked his older brother.

Mycroft held out a hand. Anthea slipped something into it. She raised her phone, snapping off two rapid pictures of John before disappearing back into the car.

As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon, tied into a bow around the bonnie star the Scottish kilt did lift and show. Sherlock snatched the ribbon from his brother’s fingers, turning away for a moment. Mycroft smiled. Really Sherly was so easy to read sometimes. The detective knelt beside his friend, carefully tying the ribbon in a loose bow, watching John for signs of returning consciousness. That fist to the jaw had hurt and he was not keen to repeat the experience.

Standing he couldn’t help but giggle at the ridiculous sight before him. John sprawled on the grass, snoring softly, his kilt rucked up, the bright blue ribbon waving jauntily from his penis. The deep chuckle beside him made him grin more, enjoying the rare moment of amusement with his older brother. Gently, so gently Sherlock drew the kilt back down, covering John from prying eyes.

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Mycroft assured him as he held the car door for his brother. Sherlock nodded, feeling generous enough to slip into the rich darkness of the car without argument.

Eventually the Scotsman woke to nature's call and he stumbled towards a tree. Behind a bush, he lifts his kilt and gawks at what he sees. And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes, “O lad I don't know where you’ve been but I see you won first prize.”

John took off the blue ribbon, running it through his fingers, turning it over and over, discovering something written at one end. Puzzled, he held it up to the lights of the pub, reading the words that had caught his eye. He laughed to himself and began jogging up the road in the direction of Baker Street.

_Come home and claim your prize. SH._

Lyrics to The Drunken Scotsman:  
Well a Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar on evening fair  
And one could tell by how we walked that he drunk more than his share  
He fumbled round until he could no longer keep his feet  
Then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street  
Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh  
He stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street

About that time two young and lovely girls just happend by  
And one says to the other with a twinkle in her eye  
See young sleeping Scotsman so strong and handsome built  
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt  
Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh  
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt

They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be  
Lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see  
And there behold, for them to view, beneath his Scottish skirt  
Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth  
Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh  
Lyrics www.allthelyrics.com/lyrics/traditional_drinking_song/  
Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth

They marveled for a moment, then one said we must be gone  
Let's leave a present for our friend, before we move along  
As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon, tied into a bow  
Around the bonnie star, the Scottish kilt did lift and show  
Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh  
Around the bonnie star, the Scots kilt did lift and show

Now the Scotsman woke to nature's call and stumbled towards a tree  
Behind a bush, he lift his kilt and gawks at what he sees  
And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes.  
O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize  
Ring ding diddle diddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh  
O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize


End file.
